


Inevitability

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [66]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Grieving, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock learns something about his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitability

He wasn't surprised by the news this time around, having anticipated it, to some degree, for the past several months now. He hadn't realized he'd been waiting for it, and had John asked, Sherlock would have answered no, of course not, because he had not given it any conscious thought. Had John asked, Sherlock would have been startled by the question, startled that John had given this any consideration whatsoever.

Despite that, when the phone call came from Mycroft on the second day of the new year, Sherlock wasn't surprised . Surprised by the timing, perhaps, because upon reflection, he found himself wondering why it had taken quite so long. It was rather an unpleasant thought, but he was no stranger to those.

He found himself mildly shocked that William hadn't died any earlier.

Of course, there'd been no indications, at least no outward ones. He hadn't been in poor health – in fact, Sherlock couldn't remember his father ever being ill.

William had simply gone to bed one night and not risen the next morning.

And it was another funeral, this one in the cold January rain, the weather having the decency behave this time around. Mycroft arranged everything, of course – he needed to be in charge, and Sherlock was more than willing to let him, because it meant less work for him, less tedious busyness, less sorting through fine legal details.

There were more of those now, and time was eaten up by lengthy visits to lawyers and banks and signing papers and reading through contracts and clauses and agreements, all of which had to be done with Mycroft, which was the most tiresome part, but at least John came along, so Mycroft couldn't be entirely overbearing.

Mycroft had dismissed all the staff – with generous severance pay – except for one caretaker. Sherlock found it odd that someone needed to stay in the uninhabited house and maintain it for no one but himself, although he suspected his brother would take up residence there more often. It would give Angela and David MacTaggart somewhere more private to come when they wanted to be close to London but not within the city itself.

Sherlock didn't care – there would be little point in coming back up here anymore. John probably had ideas about sentimentality for the place where Sherlock had grown up, but Sherlock disliked being here without his mother's presence. The memories of Sibyl outweighed the memories of his childhood, and he and John weren't lacking in money. They could rent a place somewhere if they wanted to escape the city. Other holidays, like Christmas, would be spent at Baker Street. Sherlock was firm about that in his own mind, especially since Mycroft would take any mention of spending Christmas at the manor home as an invitation to spend Christmas with him. Sherlock had done enough of those while growing up to last him a lifetime.

He stood under a black umbrella with John, who was holding Sherlock's gloved hand in his, the embrace barely visible beneath their winter coats. The service had been held at the same Anglican church where Sibyl's funeral had taken place. Sherlock had strongly objected to that to Mycroft, who had not listened to him at all. Of course. So he'd endured, because it was expected of him, but endured unhappily.

Now it was over, and they were huddled in the cold winter rain, watching as William's coffin was lowered into a plot next to Sibyl's. Sherlock disliked this, too – the need for burial seemed like a waste of space and resources, and he knew full well what sort of chemicals were pumped into a body for embalming. He reminded himself to tell John, later, that he was opting for cremation after his organs had been donated. Probably best save that for a while, though, because John would be sensitive about that topic right now.

William's body was whole, not because Mycroft or Sherlock would have objected to their father being an organ donor, but he had died in his sleep, a heart attack, and had not been found by the staff for some hours. By that point, it had been far too late.

Sherlock felt somewhat like he was at the funeral of an acquaintance whom he had not known well, but whom his mother had. Strange to think he had just lost his father. It felt nothing like losing Sibyl. He knew John was keeping a sharp eye on him, and he felt some loss, but not the same gaping grief, not the denial, not the terrible weight in his chest.

Just a sense of finality. Inevitability.

He wasn't surprised that his mother's sister, Adele, was there, but he was surprised at how upset she appeared. She stood on Mycroft's other side, with her children, Victoria, Elizabeth and Dorian – Sherlock remembered their names this time. Dorian and Mycroft were of an age, but time and perhaps lifestyle had been kinder to him – he hadn't lost any of his hair, nor did he appear to be contending with a constant diet. He was not so tall as Sherlock, but equally as pale, with the same grey eyes but blond hair. The women were blond as well, so that Adele would have stood out among them, had she still had her dark hair, the same hair Sibyl had had, the same hair Sherlock had, but she had gone pure white some time ago. As her sister had.

He had never thought of his father as close to Adele, because he'd never thought of his father as close to anyone.

When they returned to the manor after the reception, Sherlock reflected that he was an orphan. Strange to think that, that this word should be applied to him because it seemed wrong, if only because he was days from his fortieth birthday and it couldn't be considered tragic. Glancing at John, he realized he didn't want to contend with the day that Carol died and John lost his last living family member.

They were tiresome, these morbid thoughts, but he couldn't seem to avoid them.

"Sit," John said, settling himself on the sofa and pointing to the floor in front of him.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Take off your jacket and shirt and sit."

John removed his own suit jacket, folding it over the back of the couch and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Sherlock stripped down to his trousers and socks, settling cross-legged on the floor in front of his husband. John rubbed his shoulders and neck and Sherlock let himself relax.

A knock on the door interrupted them ten minutes later and Sherlock put his shirt back on as John answered it. He was surprised to see Adele, not Mycroft, whom he had been expecting.

She was carrying a small box and was dry-eyed if pale, paler than normal, sorrow half-hidden behind her even grey-eyed gaze.

"Sherlock, John," she greeted them.

"Aunt Adele," Sherlock replied. She gestured slightly with the box.

"He left this for you."

Sherlock took the proffered box, feeling somewhat curious. It was light and rattled slightly, a gentle clinking sound, as he pulled the lid off carefully. It was a pale box, shoe-box sized, but the kind designed for storage, with the corners reinforced by small brass clasps.

"Do you know that he loved her?" Adele asked and Sherlock glanced up, drawing his gaze from the box momentarily.

He was surprised by the question, by the fact that his aunt was asking it, and asking it so bluntly. He held her gaze, the silence stretching between them for a moment, John standing beside him, that familiar warm presence, somewhat confused by the enquiry but always there, always steadfast and loyal.

Sherlock glanced down at the box again. There were several small red glass ornaments like the kind his mother had always hung on the bare trees in the garden in the winter, a small envelope with some black-and-white pictures, and a book.

_The Picture of Dorian Gray._

He pulled the book out carefully, handing the box to John, who took it without question. Sherlock opened it gently, mindful that the cheaply produced paperback was half a century old, and read the faint inscription in his mother's handwriting.

"William Holmes, from Sibyl Barnes, 1967."

His father had chosen this to leave Sherlock, one of his favourite books, purchased for him by Sibyl before they were married, on a whim because she suspected he might like it. Because she knew him well enough to judge that.

"Yes," he said softly, thoughtfully, keeping his eyes on the dedication. "I think perhaps I do know that."


End file.
